A letter from the Cedars, that arrived the next morning, brought strange news to Dorothy and Tavia. It was about Urania.

Mrs. White wrote that the police were looking for the gypsy girl, as well as for the men who had robbed Birchland, and wanted the girl on a charge of robbery!

“I cannot believe it true,” wrote Dorothy’s aunt, “but I imagine it may be a part of the men’s revenge against Urania for giving us back our silver and the birds. By the way, I have to tell you that four of the pigeons died last week, and John declares they were poisoned!”

“There!” exclaimed Dorothy, who had been reading the letter aloud to Tavia, “I know it is all those bad men. They have poisoned our beautiful birds just for spite,” and she stopped to hide her indignation, and to otherwise suppress her feelings.

“Let me read it?” asked Tavia, who was impatient to hear all of the story. She took the missive and continued where Dorothy had stopped.

“They accuse Urania,” she read, “of breaking and entering a house on the outskirts of Fernwood.”

“The idea!” interrupted Dorothy, “How could that little thing ‘break and enter’?”

“Well, she might,” considered Tavia, “but I don’t believe she ever did. But let’s hear it all.” Then she attempted to finish the letter again.

“The people of Ferndale are so wrought up over the affair they have had all the gypsies expelled from this township,” read Tavia, “and if the gypsies find Urania now I am afraid it will go hard with her, for they blame her for all the trouble.

“There is no telling where she may turn up,” continued the missive, “so keep your eyes and ears open, and let me know if there should be any clue to her whereabouts around Glenwood.”

There were other news items of more or less importance—all about Dorothy’s brothers, Joe and Roger, how well they got along at school, and how grieved they were to find that Dorothy had left for Glenwood before they had had a chance to see her again. Mrs. White went on to say in the letter that Major Dale was much improved in health, and that his trip during the summer had made “a new man of him.”

So the missive concluded, and after going over it again, Dorothy was unable to find another word “between the lines.”

“Where can poor Urania be hiding?” she added, when at last she folded up the precious letter from home and put it in her leather case. “I do hope she will escape those cruel men. Oh, when I think of that cave—but—”

“You are reminded that you should forget it,” interrupted Tavia. “Do you know, Dorothy Dale, it is time for class?”

This announcement ended the discussion of affairs at the Cedars, although Dorothy could not so easily disengage her thoughts from the home scenes mentioned and suggested by the letter from Aunt Winnie.

Rose-Mary slipped up to her as they passed in to take their places.

“The ‘rowdies’ are up to some scheme,” she whispered, meaning by “rowdies” the girls who usually succeeded in making trouble, the present attack being aimed at Miette. “I heard them plotting last night.”

There was neither time nor opportunity for reply, but what Dorothy did not say with the glance she bestowed on Cologne was not at all difficult to guess at. She had shot a challenging look out of her deep blue eyes, such as she very seldom indulged in.

“She’ll stand pat for Miette, all right,” Cologne concluded within her own mind, “and the others had best not be too sure of themselves.”

At class Miette looked very pale, and hardly raised her eyes from her books. In fact, her chiseled features looked like marble in the deep, black setting of her heavy hair.

“Poor child!” sighed Dorothy to herself, “I wonder what can be her trouble? It is surely not all grief for her mother, for even that would hardly deepen as the days go on, and she seemed actually jolly at first.”

Miss Bylow had the English class. There was plainly an air of expectancy in the school room. Miss Bylow was that angular sort of a person one is accustomed to associate with real spectacles and dark scowls. She wore her hair in a fashion that emphasized her peculiarities of features, and a schoolgirl, turnover collar finished the rather humorous effect.

“Valentine,” whispered Tavia to Edna.

“Bird,” muttered Edna in reply.

“Now, young ladies,” began the new teacher, as the class was opened, “I have one absolute rule, the violation of which I never condone. That is, in my class there shall be no notes passed. If a pupil must send a message to a girl during study hour she may ask the privilege of doing so. But under no circumstances will she write or pass a note surreptitiously. One assisting another with such deception is equally blamable. Now, you may go on with your work.”

This order fell upon the English class like a threat—how in the world were the girls to get along without ever writing a note? There are times when a girl feels something will happen if she cannot tell some one about the joke she sees, the chance for some fun later, or ask some one for the particular word that has deserted her and has to be found.

Never write a note in the English class? As well say, never whisper in the ranks!

And at that very moment every girl in the room wanted to do that very thing—write a note to another girl about the new rule, and incidentally, about the new teacher!

But no one dared venture—not even Edna or Tavia, who hitherto had little regard for “absolute rules.”

Miette sat two seats behind Nita Brandt, but Nita managed to sit so that she could occasionally take a look at the little French girl. Miette was very busy with her pad and pencil. She was plainly nervous, and Nita could see from her half-turned-round position that the new pupil was writing something without taking notes from her English book. The class were all busy—all but Nita, and she kept her eyes over her book and on the new pupil.

A slip of paper fluttered to the floor under Miette’s desk. Nita saw it instantly, but Miette did not miss it, for she made no attempt to rescue the fluttering slip of paper that actually caught up with a slight breeze from an open window, and then stole along in the direction of Nita Brandt’s desk!

The class gave their recitation and shortly that study period was over.

Then the girls filed out into the hall, for ten minutes’ recreation.

Nita lost her place in the ranks. She stopped a moment to pick up the scrap of paper that had dropped from Miette’s desk. It took but a moment to slip it into her book: then she joined the girls in the hall.

“Didn’t you sleep well?” asked Dorothy of Miette, as quickly as she could get an opportunity. “Not so very,” admitted the other, with a faint smile.

“Perhaps you are not used to being indoors—we have to do considerable studying here.”

“Oh, but I like that very much,” replied the other, “but sometimes I have headache.”

“Then you must go out all you can,” cautioned Dorothy, having noticed that Miette was not with the class on the previous afternoon, when they went for a delightful walk over the hills.

“Yes,” responded the stranger. “I love to walk, but yesterday I had—some letters to write.”

Over in the corner Nita Brandt, Lena Berg and Amy Brooks were talking with their heads very close together.

Then Nita was noticed to leave them and re-enter the classroom, where Miss Bylow still remained.

“That means something,” said Cologne aside to Dorothy, “and this is the time I forgot my handkerchief, and I must go back for it,” and with this Rose-Mary hurried into the room where Nita had just entered.

Nita stopped half way to Miss Bylow’s desk.

“I’ve forgotten my handkerchief,” explained Rose-Mary, as the other paused, and the teacher looked up for an explanation. It took Cologne quite some time to search for the “missing” article.

Miss Bylow looked to Nita for her explanation. Nita was now forced to go to the desk.

“I found this on the floor,” Rose-Mary heard her say in a low voice, as she handed to the teacher a slip of paper.

Miss Bylow glanced at some written words.

“To whom does it belong?” she asked. Cologne felt obliged to make her way out of the room, so she heard no more of the conversation. But she noticed that all the recreation period had elapsed before Nita came out of the classroom.

“That’s queer,” Rose-Mary told herself, “but I’d like to wager the note has to do either with Dorothy or Miette. Strange that the very nicest girls always are picked out for trouble. I must see Dorothy before the initiation to-night.”